Born and raised in rural New England, D. Avery is never quite out of the woods, though she has been in other fields. With a background in horticulture and a voluminous collection of agricultural books, it is accurate to say that D. Avery knows shit. Cursed with a long memory and a compulsion for word play, the only thing that has saved the public from her so far has been her resistance to the world wide web. D. Avery has now stepped into the web, ensnared by her growing addiction to writing. This is all she will admit to.
Wrangling by D. Avery
“Whoa there, Kid.”
“Guess I’m anxious to git ‘em to the Ranch.”
“You’ll git ‘em all there in good shape. Just watch for strays.”
Meanwhile, back at the Ranch, Shorty was busy at her chuckwagon. Shorty, who was of great stature, preferred the wagon to the cookhouse, liked to have her wheels ready to roll.
Shorty congratulated and cajoled the hands as they rode in from near and distant ranges. She noted the herd amassing in the corral, some branded, some a bit wild and unpredictable.
Hungry for Shorty’s nourishing comfort food, the hands milled around the chuckwagon.
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